The son's reply was an enthusiastic endorsement of the affair. He had gone over the plan with his father on the previous holiday, before returning to take a year's graduate work, and the enterprise appealed to his imagination. It was sacrilege, in a way—like disemboweling a parent for the money that could be made out of it. But what an invitation to his trained activity! A marvelous chance to show what he was made of.
He explained the project to Neil Morton, who had also returned for graduate work, after a summer's practical experience in a Wyoming smelter.
Neil twisted his shoulders comfortably into the dingy Morris chair. "Your mountain makes me weary, Pell. Morning, noon ... night. You'd think it was the only ore proposition in the country."
Pelham flushed, but unchecked finished his sentence. "It'll be the biggest plant in the whole South yet."
Neil grinned. "When the Adamsville papers get through with it, I suppose it will."
Pelham abruptly changed the subject. "I met one nice girl last week end, Neil—you would have liked her. Her father's Professor North at Cambridge, and she's full of all sorts of crazy notions. Ruth is a suffragette; wanted to vote, or run for governor, or something."
"Shocking," his friend remarked languidly. He was used to Pelham's reactions.
"Tried to convert me."
There was silence for a few moments, then Neil straightened up in his chair. "Do you realize, Pelham, that in Wyoming, where I summered, women have voted for over thirty years? Why, the mayor of one of the mining towns is a mother who has raised eleven children! Crazy notions, indeed."
Pelham looked disturbed. "They must be bad women, if they vote. Who ever heard of a decent lady mixing up with politics? Think of my mother, or yours, Neil; would you be willing to have her mingle with negroes and common riff-raff at the polls?"